Simpler living on Myrtle Island

After World War II, when Mr. Spillard built our little house on Myrtle Island, we had no idea it would ever be used in the winter time. We were summer people.

As soon as that house was finished, we were ready to move in the day after school let out and not leave until the Tuesday after Labor Day.

The rest of the year we lived in Savannah, where we had conveniences like running water, electricity, telephones and both a decent stove to cook on and one to heat the house.

None of which we had in Bluffton.

There, we pumped our water from a well Mr. Charlie Ulmer had dug for us.

When it got dark, we lit kerosene lamps and the one lantern Daddy had bought to use when he went gigging for flounder, and we were firmly convinced it was going to blow up one day.

In the kitchen, there was a cast iron stove we cooked on and an ice box that drained through a hole in the floor.

What became the joy of Mama’s life, to replace the cast iron stove, was a two-burner kerosene stove that gave food a most peculiar taste and helped me understand the attraction of Limburger cheese.

We never missed having a telephone.

Even with all the things we didn’t have, we loved it and went every possible weekend.

That 480-square foot cottage that had not a speck of insulation, the most basic of amenities and was often the victim of a north wind so savage, the curtains blew inward. The saving grace was a little sheet metal stove we bought new every fall from Thrifty Hardware on West Broad Street. It was maybe twice the size of a bread box and so light a child could lift it with ease.

The skinny brick chimney that served the kitchen stove had another opening in the main room, which we covered with a round tin cap in the spring after we discarded the old stove, worn and unsafe for another winter’s use.

As soon as the weather began to cool, it took no time at all to lay a protective asbestos pad, set down the new stove and join it to the chimney hole with a curved stove pipe. It was 20 minutes max.

Double that if you count the time needed to climb down to the beach and bring up a bucket of sand to line the bottom of this little gem that would keep us toasty warm on cold winter days.

Unlike our stove and fireplace in Savannah where we burned coal, here we started with newspaper, then pine cones and graduated to small pieces of wood.

Sometimes, the sides would get red hot and make scary “boom, boom” noises.

Yes, we had to constantly feed it and yes, it would die down at night.

Didn’t matter. We had plenty of covers for the studio couches that lined the walls and in the mornings, Daddy would start the fire while we waited until the room warmed and the smell of coffee tempted us from our snug beds.

Stoves are fanciful these days, terra cotta ones with strange shapes, ceramic ones to sit on decks and patios.

Can’t remember the last time I saw a stove actually being used in a house.

Soon, the world will be watching for smoke from a most famous stove, the one in Vatican City, waiting to see whether the smoke from that little stove is black or the white to announce a new pope has been chosen.

One thing is for sure: The cardinals don’t have to use that stove for keeping warm.

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